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preservation of all trace evidence taken from the scene.  Nearby stood a slightly stooped Asian whom I recognized as a technician from latent prints, and a third officer from the photo section.
    “Detective Kane!” shouted the newswoman again.  “Give us a minute?”
    “Not right now, Van Owen,” I said.
    “How many people were murdered?” she called, shadowing me the length of the crime ribbon, cameraman trailing behind.
    “No comment.  We haven’t even notified the next of kin.”
    “Is it true that the circumstances of the murders are identical to those of a family killed last month in Orange County?”
    “No comment.”
    “Is this the work of the Candlelight Killer?”
    Annoyed by her persistence, I turned.  Van Owen stood her ground, her blue eyes assaying me calmly, an amused smile playing across her lips.  Even in the mist she looked good—long legs, trim calves, strong, square shoulders—her trademark natural blond hair worn shoulder length despite the current convention that newswomen coif their hair short.  “What’re you doing out here with us peons, Van Owen?” I asked with exaggerated politeness.  “I thought you were a hotshot news anchor now.”
    Over the past year Lauren had increasingly substituted as co-anchor on the five o’clock news, and last September she’d permanently moved up to that position.  “I still take the juicy ones,” she replied.  “Come on, Kane.  How many victims were—”
    “Damn, Van Owen, can’t you take a hint?  We’re going to be making a statement as soon as we’ve got the facts and notified relatives.  In the meantime, why don’t you—”
    “Everybody else will be here by then,” Lauren broke in.  “C’mon, give me something.  It’s the work of the candlelight guy, isn’t it?”
    It has always irritated me that reporters routinely glorify killers by tagging them with pet names like the “Hillside Strangler,” or the “Midnight Stalker,” or apparently one last month in Orange County, the “Candlelight Killer.”  As far as I’m concerned, they’re all scum.  “I don’t know yet,” I said, recalling the candles in the Larson’s bedroom and hoping there was no connection.  “Now, how about backing off and letting me do my job?”
    “Of course, Detective,” said Lauren with a disarming smile.  Then, turning toward the house but watching me from the corner of her eye, she lowered her microphone and unbuttoned her camel-colored jacket.  “Think you’ll catch him?” she asked, taking a deep breath that caused her breasts to lift against the fabric of her blouse.
    “Yeah.  Sooner or later, we’ll get this maggot,” I answered.  I turned on my heel and started walking.  “I only wish we could close cases as fast as certain reporters find out about them.”
    Lauren matched my steps.  “Maggot,” she mused.  “I like it.”
    “Glad you approve,” I muttered under my breath, realizing with renewed irritation that the cameraman was still shooting.
    Noticing my glance at the camera, Lauren signaled her associate to shut down.  Then, “Hey, Kane?  When you’re done here, how about giving me a couple minutes over a cup of coffee?  There’re some things I want to run by you concerning the Orange County murders.”
    “Sorry, Van Owen, I’m booked.  Maybe I can squeeze you in later.  Say, sometime in the next century.”
    “Thanks,” Lauren laughed.  “I look forward to it.”
     
    Officer Morrison had just finished recording the SID team’s names and serial numbers when I walked up.  Tremmel was the first to notice my arrival.  “Hey, Dan,” he said.  “You’re lookin’ uglier than ever.  How’s Kate?”
    “Fine, Frank.  How ’bout Millie?  Still hoping to wake up someday and find herself married to a skinny cop?”
    “Yeah,” the stocky criminalist answered.  “She’s got me on a new diet, one of those programs where they send you all your food.  It’s only been a few months